


The Life and Death of William SS Holmes

by Teaandcakes



Series: Beyond Ourselves [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Addiction, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, NB rape/non con underage is historic references not happening now, Past Child Abuse, Self Harm, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 19:17:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1659467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teaandcakes/pseuds/Teaandcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reprieve from Sherlock's Eastern European suicide mission turns out to be the trigger for the unravelling of the detective. </p><p>At the same time, John's own life and plans fall apart. Is there any moving on from this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Separation

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first part of the Beyond series, there is planned to be one more part.  
> There is some explicit content and hence there are warnings.  
> Note, the explicit content is not johnlock in this part of the fiction...but the build up is there.....roll on Part 2!
> 
> Please note the child sexual abuse elements are historic but discussed in some detail.
> 
> This is my first fanfic of any description :-O and I had meant to start with a short modest ficlet but this monster totally took on a life of its own :-))
> 
> If you enjoy this fic Please please do give kudos and esp feedback as I would be hugely grateful!! esp if there are aspects you really like or struggle with. 
> 
> This first part of the series is still brisk in pace: the subsequent parts do go much, much deeper: I hope you enjoy getting further into the action and also the ways John and Sherlock deal with the impact of both their pasts.
> 
> NOTE: Feb 2016 : chapters 1-3 have now been re-edited by me to be better punctuated and easier to read!

As the small jet came into its final slow approach, barely five minutes after it had departed, John's stomach lurched. The pale weak light of the dawn seemed to fade back into grey. The plane seemed to blur, then come into focus again. He shifted, weight transferring from leg to leg, hands behind his back, eyes narrowed against the sun, blinding even in its frailest form.

He stood alongside Mary, his wife, his lips thin and strained, not speaking. He didn't look at her, he couldn't. He couldn't believe that Sherlock had...and then had not...he was angry, at Sherlock for saying what he said, for not saying something else, but angry, too, with Mary. For wearing red, cheery garish red, for manipulating them all. Most of all, for shooting Sherlock and starting the chain of events that had ended here, with a fatal exile. 

But no. The plane was almost down. And John was staring at the plane, which landed and taxied and stopped. Back on English soil, unbelievably. Less than ten minutes? The world seemed surreal. 

The small exit door slowly swung open. 

No one appeared. 

Mycroft and his surly entourage started to fidget and murmur and fiddle with equipment. Several checked their firearms. One spoke on a radio, to some disembodied voice. Nothing. After five minutes of waiting, minions were dispatched to approach the aircraft. 

But just as they did so, Sherlock appeared at the top of the short flight of steps, and slowly descended, staring straight at John as he did so, never wavering in his intent flinty gaze. The officials melted away, now, only to be replaced by several large gentlemen in ill fitting blazers and chinos, following Sherlock down the steps. John hadn't seen them before. They must have been on the plane already. They looked more Guantanamo than security detail. 

His focus swivelled to Sherlock. John thought Sherlocks face looked wrong, somehow. Sort of.....blotchy. It was never blotchy? For once John did have some idea, but only some, as to why. The killing of Magnusson and Sherlocks ridiculous evasive speech on the airfield Tarmac, yards away from the ridicule of Mycroft and the competition of Mary, had told John that Sherlock had apparently sacrificed everything for John's happiness. His career, his reputation, and ultimately with this aborted mission, he would sacrifice his life. 

How much further Sherlock's feelings went, John had no idea, and he didn't feel remotely comfortable thinking about it. He had not yet the slightest idea of how to reconcile Sherlock's bizarre behaviour with the continuing question of his own sexuality. Nor with the fact, the undeniable fact of his very pregnant (assassin) wife, the one who shot and pretty much killed Sherlock. He was finding it impossible to forget that, even to relegate it to anywhere other than the front of his brain. He was aware she was sighing, standing getting too cold next to him, clearly in a bad mood. Why? Why was she not glad? 

Lastly, he was worried by the apparent reappearance of Moriarty - or someone using his identity.

Sherlock was accompanied by the two bear-like security guards, their firearms clearly and intentionally visible. John couldn't see the detective's expression too clearly, other than it looked dark and remarkably glowering. He was led away and put into the back of a car. It was only as the car turned to sweep away that John caught a glimpse of his lowered head and that beautiful, ghostly profile. The doctor blinked, and cleared his throat, and looked away. What the fuck was wrong with him? 

.............

Mary got back into their own car, their ordinary, neat, sensible car; a blank, pursed expression on her face. She looked worried and tense and furious and she fiddled with her red coat buttons continually. Occasionally she gave one of them a vicious twist. There seemed little relief in her eyes, and certainly pleasure. 

Mycroft appeared silently at Johns side, gliding into view. The man was more like a serpent than a human being, John concluded. Mycroft's expression was impossible to read, tired certainly, but also as though he couldn't decide whether to look happy or vomit up. 

'My brother remains in secure custody. His release...will be a limited one, allowing him to pursue Moriarty, or whoever is behind these messages, but remaining under parole-like conditions. If he succeeds, if he identifies and eliminates the threat, he is likely to be freed completely, and permanently, even with a royal pardon. 

'If he does not, if he fails, he will never be free. Prison with a life sentence, since that is mandatory for murder, or back to a similar mission to that envisaged previously. The stakes could not be higher, John, I need you to understand this. Sherlock must be totally focused on the mission in hand, and not weighed down by any...."baggage". For his sake, and for your own. I cannot emphasise enough the gravity of the situation.'

John bristled at the term 'baggage'. Fucking cheek. 

'Am I not allowed to see him at all, then, to speak to him?' 

'No. I'm afraid that simply won't be possible. Not until this...is done. You and Mary will be taken into our protection. Fake identities, a safe house, all the appropriate trimmings. We are very practised in this. Mary will have top medical care for herself and for the baby. She may well be safer than in your own flat. Neither of you must see Sherlock, nor communicate with him. '

'But if I stay away from Sherlock, why is all the rest of the stuff, the safe house,the security, needed?' 

Johns hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles turned white. He wanted to hit Mycroft. A lot. Not for the first time, but this time, he was really, really close. He felt as if he was free falling into chaos, spinning round and round as he hurtled downwards. It wasn't unlike his panic when Sherlock 'died' falling from Bart's. He really didn't need to go there again. He swallowed, trying to regain control of his temper, feeling the flush of red mist fighting him before subsiding into sadness.

All the while, Mycroft stood quietly, clearly aware of the threat, but taking no steps to move away or to protect himself. The man was clearly aware of the power of physical performance and was not going to display any hint of fear or weakness. 

........

The minutes passed. John's temper had left him and now he was just drained and hating the world generally. 

'John.' Mycroft regarded him with a look that was almost soft, perhaps even pitying. Probably pitying. This was Mycroft, after all. He answered John's question as though time had not passed since he made the enquiry.

'You know why. Whoever it is who is 'back' is going to target Sherlock. They've lured him back either to play with him, and I don't mean Scrabble, John; or to reserve for themselves the pleasure of killing him, probably slowly and painfully. But there is another possibility, that, as in the past, John, they will target the only person whom Sherlock would do anything to protect. That, Doctor Watson, is you. Perhaps they will do both? Then my brother will have your company when they kill him, and kill you. They would enjoy that, I think.'

The umbrella scratched the Tarmac. A crow landed some way off, and cawed to nothing in particular, the sound grating and harsh.

John had no answer for Mycroft's words. He knew the sarcasm was meant to add impact to the words, to the threats he and Sherlock faced. He looked at the floor, scuffing the Tarmac with his toe. He felt too hot and too cold now, all at once.

Mycroft sighed. 'Your presence would put both of you at unacceptable risk. Both because you are the key targets in all likelihood, but the risk is greater because my brother will not maintain objectivity if he thinks you are in danger.' 

John eventually nodded. And grimaced. 'How long?' 

'However long it takes us to catch up with this character. Could be a week, could be a month? It might even be years, though I really rather hope not. There are some foreign affairs that also require my attention.....so inconvenient......You know, John, the more often the word 'democratic' appears in a country's name, the more often I find myself having to offer help and guidance. Ironic, don't you think?'

The discussion was over, as ever dictated by Mycroft. He glided away, and stepped into his black limousine, which immediately purred away quietly. 

John returned to his own (much less glamorous and distinctly low on purring) car. That was the thing about the Holmes world, it just made stuff that previously seemed perfectly okay and normal, into grey and dull and....he decided to park that one right in his mind garage, now he'd decided he had a mind garage to match Sherlocks mind palace...

'What was all that about?' said Mary, with an accusing tone. John struggled to control his emotions. 

'Its like this......'


	2. That which cannot easily be erased

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John thinks it better that there is no summary.....he discovers the extent of Sherlocks disintegration.

The first week after the aborted exile was marginally bearable. John was settling them in, working out how worried to be, about Mary and the baby, about the birth, about Moriarty. He was also, inevitably, frequently distracted by thoughts of Sherlock, where he was and what was happening to him. What was he doing? Was he lonely, or buzzed. Did he miss John? But there was no news, and, gradually, no news became the norm. The papers hadn't caught onto there being more to the CAM story than a mystery assassin. Mycroft had made sure of that. All was quiet and still, maybe too quiet. 

The safe house itself was more than comfortable, if a little impersonal, with its bland sepia prints on the wall and drearily utilitarian kitchen units. More positively, the medical facilities and staff provided for Mary were undeniably top notch. As a career Army and NHS medic, it bore little resemblance to the challenges of his own work. No stressed, overloaded staff dealing with Friday night drunks here, no bleeding out soldiers telling the medics they didn't want to die here, that they wanted to go home, that they wanted the pain to stop...It gave John the space and room to breathe, and he probably needed that. But there was still a hollow gap inside him, and a sense of unreality.

John had managed to secure from Mycroft a promise to ring him weekly with some kind of reassurance about the progress of the mission. Sure enough, on the Friday evening of the the end of the first week, Mycroft called with reassuring noises about progress. It appeared that Moriarty was indeed definitively dead on that roof at Barts and that the media spree had been triggered by his second-in-command, a disgraced ex-army sniper named Sebastian Moran, who had previously been thought to have been eliminated in Sherlocks two year global huntdown of Moriartys network. 

How he had escaped was something to be looked at later; for now, the priority was ensuring that it definitely didn't happen again. John was shown a photo but he didn't recognise the man. He was good looking, in a thin-lipped kind of a way. Harry had read the Famous Five books out loud to John when they were kids, and her heroine George had always said not to trust men with thin lips. John thought that was rubbish, what on earth difference did it make, but was reminded of it now, as he stared at the frozen image of the man who was causing all this chaos. He had to remind himself that he had thin lips too and on the whole he was a good person. He wondered why Sebastian Moran was doing it? Business, pure and simple? Or was there a loyalty to Moriarty that extended beyond that? Who knew?

................

At the end of the second week, Mycroft didn't call as John expected. John's phone stayed silent and Mycroft turned up in person instead. Which was, John thought in hindsight, a Very Bad Sign. 

Mary was having a long bath. Having reached the stage in pregnancy where everything was just really bloody uncomfortable, the warm water provided welcome if temporary relief. So John was alone in the living room when Mycroft arrived and was shown in by one of the security officers.

John sat down and looked expectantly at Mycroft, who seemed to be looking around the room, rather than at John. Eventually, Mycroft stopped peering at his and Mary's lodgings long enough to look as if he might actually sit down at some point.

'Ah John. So pleased to see you. I understand Mary is doing well. Good, good. Yes, thank you, a cup of tea would be lovely.'

John made sure it was stewed, and 'builders' tea.' The pursed lips the tannin produced was reward enough.

He propped his ever present umbrella, the one John suspected had a death dagger in handle, against the chair and sank down gratefully. John provided biscuits, all very superior. Not his biscuits of course; he doubted Mycroft was 'into' Jammie Dodgers and Custard Creams. John had never been able to decide which of the two were superior. The jam in the Dodgers was the stickiest jam known to Science, (Sherlock had proved this in several experiments at John's personal request), but Custard creams...well, they had the character of such sweet chalkiness when the two biscuits were pulled apart and the filling licked off. John knew this from childhood habit. He had not asked Sherlock to perform any experiments involving licking and Custard Creams for reasons he preferred not to analyse? 

I am, I admit, glad that I find you alone.' 

.............

Mycroft's voice jolted John back to the room, after his biscuit reverie. How did he know this? Oh, yes, safe house, Mycroft, no doubt house is bugged to the eyeballs. He should have known better than to wonder). He proffered the stem ginger thins and sighed.

John sensed some tension in Mycrofts tone.

'How is the search for Moran going? How is Sherlock?' John found it hard to say either name without wincing. 

'The search, John, is now progressing rather slower than we would like, unfortunately. My little brother.......how shall I put it?' An insincere smile, not reaching his eyes. 'My brother's well being - or otherwise - is......connected to that fact.'

'Connected? What do you mean?' John felt prickles of unease on the back of his neck. (Keep calm, John. Maintain control).

'He is failing to maintain an....appropriate focus......on the task in hand'. Mycroft pursed his lips in distaste. 'He appears to be losing control of himself and of his self-respect. This is manifesting itself in a number of undesirable areas, not least of which, John, is that he appears to have returned to the loving and heady embrace of chemical stimulation'.

'He's back on drugs'? John felt his throat become dry and his head start to pound. 'Fuck. How? He's supposed to be under close custody? Aren't your spies capable of keeping him safe? Aren't you? Christ, Mycroft, you're supposed to keep him safe!' 

John ran his fingers through his hair and then realised he was clenching on a strand of hair so hard, it had come out. He returned his hand to his side, but then had to grip one hand in another to control the tremor which had chosen this moment to appear for the first time in months. 

Mycroft didn't miss the hand tremor, but chose not to mention it. 

'My brother is, as you should know by now, John, extremely adept at fooling those of less guile than him, and this unfortunately includes most of the security services of the UK. More to the point, getting to Moran is requiring contact with some highly undesirable elements of society. Which Sherlock is perfectly placed to do, but at the risk of what has now transpired.'

John was breathing through his nose now, pale with anger.

'So you let him get involved with drug dealers, in order to follow leads to Moran? Do you have any idea how stupid and irresponsible that is to a man with his history?? Do you?? Do you even care??? This is a man who isn't allowed anything stronger than paracetamol!'

John was really trying to keep a lid on his emotions, and it was a struggle. What was it Sherlock said? Data, he needed data. Then he could explode. Data first. 

'Ok. So. What is he on?'

Mycroft sighed.   
'Cocaine, morphine, possibly other substances. I have not detected heroin being involved, though realistically that may be only a matter of time. Once he starts, properly starts down this road, despite his protestations, my younger brother really lacks the judgement to make any proper decisions. Before long, we could be back to speedballs for elevenses and stomach pumps before the dinner gong. Just like old times, in a way.'

Mycroft paused, and dropped the snarkiness (though that word would not cross his linguistic drawbridge in a thousand years).

'And of course I care, John, otherwise we would not be having this conversation.'

'Im not even sure why we are?'

John was panicking now, and he made damn sure that fact did NOT manifest itself in his voice. This was where his army background came in very useful. He decided to take a different tack. His voice was controlled; clear and calm and steely. 

'You mentioned 'aspects' in which his behaviour was 'undesirable'. Aspects means more than one. The drug use is pretty much rock bottom, and I am now seriously fucking worried, so what else are you going to hit me with? It can't be any worse.' 

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably on his expensively clad feet. 

'Sex, John.'

...........

John looked at Mycroft as if he was an alien, newly landed and attempting to communicate an "I come in peace" message. Not speaking alien, he struggled to say anything for what seemed a very long pause.

'Sex? Sherlock? Sherlock doesn't DO sex. He's not interested in sex. Or relationships, come to that, except in analysing those of others, mainly unpleasantly, so he can point it out to them! What the hell do you mean?' 

Mycroft stared at John for a moment, seeming to consider something. 

'Im sorry John. I know your opinion of me, but please believe me when I say that I would not be showing you this footage, if I felt there was any other effective way to communicate the urgency of the situation.' 

Then he sighed, set his jaw, and reached into his briefcase for a slim armoured laptop. He opened it, switching on the screen which sprang into ghostly life. Retinal scanning followed, and a one-time passcode, and then he was in. Selecting a folder from the crowded but organised menu, he opened up a video file. 

..............

The footage was colour, and of remarkable quality for a surveillance camera. John later wished it had been much lower quality, grainy and indistinct, leaving space for doubt, allowing room for his brain to erase the images by then etched like acid into his mind. But no, that couldn't be. It was clear, and mercilessly sharp, and John watched helplessly, as footage of the alley behind what looked like a nightclub, started to play. It was date-stamped two days previous. 

The alley was sparsely lit by a number of security lights from the club. There was a fire exit door from the club building, some metal-grilled windows high up on the walls, and several bulk waste bins further along the dank passage. It was dark and raining hard, and the sodium lights glowed brightly through the darkness. 

Suddenly, the fire exit door swung open, and John held his breath as a very differently dressed Sherlock appeared and walked slowly down the steps, his head low. He stumbled once, but didn't appear to notice. His hair was slicked, and he brushed it away from his eyes with his forearm. John had never seen him do that all the time they lived together.

John stared at the screen. Sherlock was dressed all in black. That was OK. Some sort of black T shirt. OK. Black trousers. OK. But ....black leather trousers? And boots?

John gasped. Partly because Sherlock looked bloody good in the clothes, but also because the outfit was so unlike his usual suits, worm over tight formal shirts, and the ever-present Belstaff. They, they were formal and restrained. This - this was worldly, and base and, well, overtly sexual. A black panther. John felt an uncomfortable warmth start to pool at the base of his stomach. He tried to will it away but he didn't need to; its progress was soon restrained by fear of what was coming next. 

Mycroft wouldn't be showing him this video footage to illustrate Sherlock's developing fashion choices, unusual though they be, he felt sure. Dread lurked in his gut. 

..............

As Sherlocks face turned towards the camera, it came into full view and sharp focus. His expression was strained, angry, his eyes pale and glittering. He looked exhausted. Not healthy. 

But around his eyes was what held Johns attention, a significant quantity of smudgey dark grey eyeliner, the streetlight shining behind him giving him the appearance of a very, very far fallen angel. 

'Christ, what?......' 

................

John had little time to react to Sherlock's appearance, before the fire exit door slammed open and two young men appeared, one dark-clothed (more leather) and one in lighter gear, jeans and white T shirt. They both approached Sherlock together, quickly, almost threateningly. They engaged him in a pretty one-sided conversation, which the soundless video footage didn't capture. John was rubbish at lip-reading, (though he suspected Mycroft was probably an expert, given his proficiency in all matters of language and linguistics). But he didn't need to lip-read to understand this one.

Both the men were blond, one a little shorter than Sherlock and more solid in physique (though that wasn't difficult, Sherlock looked even thinner than ever, without John to bully him into any sort of regular eating). The other, the dark-clothed man, was taller, very powerfully built, possibly ex-military. John knew the giveaways. Definitely a squaddie.

After a few moments, conversation appeared to end and the dark clothed man suddenly grabbed hold of Sherlock and shoved him bodily against one of the big rubbish bins. John's breath seemed to catch in his throat. The man grabbed a section of Sherlock's curly hair and pulled back hard, exposing Sherlock's pale throat to the security light above. Then he leaned down, to the side of Sherlocks neck and bit hard. John could see the broken skin and what would become bruising, immediately the man moved away. 

He didn't move far, though. Both men now moved back in together and light clothes took a knife from his pocket, flicking out the blade and then swiftly slicing down the front of Sherlock's T-shirt. Meanwhile, dark clothes had moved in front of Sherlock, who was still slumped against the rubbish bin, and began undoing the fastenings of his trousers, hitching them down to his pale bony hips, the detectives cock springing free from its confines, already half erect. There were no underpants to remove. 

John was hypnotised with horror and disbelief. It was like watching all his truths and foundations undo themselves, while he was silently watching. He tried to regulate his breathing. 

Light clothes moved to Sherlock's front and knelt down. He looked up at Sherlock's face, got the nod he was seeking and without preamble took Sherlocks cock into his mouth, and began to tease and suck, taking down half the length and using a hand at the base to control the movement. Dark clothes looked approvingly on and then unfastened his own trousers, shoving a hand down and stroking himself slowly. Sherlocks head remained thrown back, and he looked as if he was in a trance as he thrust strongly into the strangers mouth. 

Johns expression had turned steely and defiant, as he fought to control the rising tide of nausea in his throat. Until that nod from Sherlock he had half believed that this was completely non-consensual. Now he knew that at some level Sherlock was compliant? But why? It felt wrong, all totally wrong.

'What the fuck is he doing Mycroft? Does he know what he's doing? Is he so high he's not understanding? Have they brought him here by force?' He prayed the answers would make Sherlock more of a victim than a willing participant, in what was clearly likely to take place next. 

Mycroft looked down at his highly polished shoes and twiddled his umbrella point into the rug that covered the floor under the coffee table.

' I believe he is being fellated by a man he has just met. And that they will now proceed to full intercourse. He's not as high as he wants to be, I think, and not so high that he doesn't know what he's doing. He's not been brought here by force. I'm sorry, John.' 

The dark Sherlock on the screen tensed and came. His new 'friend' moved away but not quickly enough to avoid some of Sherlocks come decorating his face. He spoke sharply to the detective. Sherlock licked it off. Which just made it all so much fucking worse.

John bit his lip so hard he could taste the copper tang of his own blood.


	3. Things go downhill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nope doesn't get much better for John just yet....

Things took a downhill turn, if that were possible, from there on. John closed his eyes during some of the proceedings but helplessly saw the progression of most of it. 

Following the blow job, light clothes took out his erect cock and shoved Sherlock's face hard down on it. Now John saw the first indication of refusal, Sherlock shook his head furiously. John realised with shock that he wasn't just refusing, he was clearly panicking and trying desperately to move away. Outnumbered, his protests and struggle were in vain, as both men forced him back down. 

The fight gone from him, it seemed, Sherlock quickly brought the man to orgasm. He didn't spit out the come, he swallowed it. Coughing a little. Eyes watering.

John looked away out of the window for a moment. He could hear the hum of passers-by. None of them had any idea what an ordeal he was sitting through. And it wasn't over yet.

It was dark clothes turn. If anything, he seemed to be in charge. He turned Sherlock to face the bin and using a piece of cloth he removed from a holdall, blindfolded the detective. John waited for Sherlock to protest, as he had over the blowjob, but there was nothing. Sherlock seemed compliant now. 

Then the man removed a small bottle from his bag, slicked his fingers and erect prick, and shoved two fingers straight into Sherlock without any preamble or warning. Sherlock's features contorted in pain, but he remained where he was. Light clothes was looking on and smirking, using his phone to take pictures and video footage. 

Dark clothes clearly thought that was enough preparation (it isn't, it really isn't, thought John) and lined himself up to Sherlock's arse and sank himself in. Into Sherlock. Right in, one forceful move right to the hilt, causing the detective to wince and groan. 

He didn't use a condom and Sherlock didn't ask him to. Dark clothes moved quickly, thrusting hard and fast, gripping Sherlock by the hip and pushing him down by the shoulder. It doesn't take long. Especially when Sherlock started to shout at him. Telling him to just get on with it, to fuck him, rip him apart. John shook his head but dark clothes seemed only to find it an incentive - and does so. He was now being so forceful, that the heavy braked bin, which was the detective's main support, is being moved with each stroke and Sherlock's cries were clearly audible. John couldn't see Sherlock's cock, of course, but he was left with no illusions when he heard a roar of release as Sherlock came. 

Dark clothes came soon after, suddenly and very loudly. The pair remained for a moment before Dark clothes withdrew his softening prick out of Sherlock's arse and moved away. Deprived of support, Sherlock slid to the floor amidst the rubbish bins, trousers still slung around his hips. He looked exhausted, and utterly miserable. 

Nearly over. John rubbed at his forehead. 

Light and dark clothes redressed themselves quickly and efficiently. Light clothes tossed a small white packet into the detective's lap. And then, they just left, leaving him on the ground like so much rubbish, the tiny white packet untouched in front of him. 

Sherlock remained like that for a few minutes, hunched on the floor. His face isn't visible. John wondered how much pain and discomfort he was in, no way was that a safe or comfortable encounter. Then Sherlock stood, wiped away what mess he could from his stomach and chest, re-fastened his trousers, pulled together the tatters of his Tshirt, and collecting the packet of powder, walked hesitantly and slowly away.

Watching his stumbling progress was the last straw for John's stomach. His eyes blurred by tears, he vomited without warning onto the living room floor. A small amount of his puke splashed accusingly onto Mycroft's shoe, as if in punishment for bringing this video here, to John, to burn itself onto his eyes. 

Mycroft, impassive, retrieved a large white handkerchief from his immaculate Huntsman suit, and delicately wiped the vomit away. 

..........

After he returned from the kitchen with a cloth and cleared up the secondhand remains of the last meal he ate, John rounded on Mycroft. 

'Why exactly are you showing me this shit? You know. You know about .....'stuff'. You know it's .....complicated..... with me and with Sherlock. Why are you doing this to me? I don't need to know about this SHIT!' 

John's hand made contact - hard - with the wall, purely as an alternative to making contact with Mycroft's face. Particularly his nose or his solar plexus. Either of which would have been more satisfying, but after the ASBO for graffiti and the caution for chinning the Chief Superintendent, decking the British Government seemed unwise at this moment.

Mycroft regarded him impassively. 

'Several reasons, Doctor Watson.  
Firstly, because you are aware, or you really should be aware, that my brother is deeply in love with you... and has been for some time.'

'I ....'  
John looked at the floor. What was he supposed to do with this information. Now. Now. When it was all too fucking late?

 

'Please let me continue, John?'

'OK. OK. I don't think - I don't know that you're right. But this is not easy for me. I just want you to understand how not easy this is for me. OK?' 

Mycroft looked unsympathetic and continued on. 

'Secondly, Sherlocks lack of focus on this case, which is vital to his own safety and your own, and that of your....' He pauses. 'expectant spouse...is, I believe, driven by his increasing desperation and inability to function in high risk situations without your presence and support - and possibly more.' 

John interjected with a strained tone to his voice.

'How do you know it's all to do with me. Why is it always me?' 

Mycroft sighed.  
'Because John, when, as an adult, Sherlock has been desperate in a crisis before, he has headed solely for drugs. He has never undertaken any other types of activity. I believe what he is currently doing is attempting, unsuccessfully, to exorcise some demons, acting out some self-loathing. Both the drugs, and the what popular culture might label the 'misery fucking'. 

Let me explain why I think that? However I believe I can now hear Mary approaching. This is not something I wish her to be privy to. Come with me to the car, John. Tell Mary whatever excuse you like, to free you for an hour or so. Bring your mobile so she can alert you if there is any crisis. 

I will explain some of Sherlock's past and it may help to explain some aspects of his behaviour. I would be grateful if you made some attempt to conceal the fact I have shared this information, as it is not something we readily talk about as a family and all records of the affair have been expunged from all official records. 

'It started when Sherlock was eleven years old.'


	4. The death of William Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's backstory. It's not pretty and please heed the warnings. Specific warnings at the end of the chapter in the notes

It started when Sherlock was eleven years old. Well, to be strictly accurate, at that stage he was still William: - he hadn't yet decided on using his second name. But we all know him as Sherlock now, so let's stick with that, John. Helps the narrative flow.'

'Sherlock was an unusual child. We both were, in the sense that we were obsessed with knowledge, with 'why and how' and observing the world than we were in other children, (with whom for the most part we avoided contact). But we had each other and our dog, a house and grounds to explore and we were happy at home when Sherlock was a baby and very small. He and I were especially close. 

School was a different matter. I had the brain that allowed me to use school to further my own studies and connections and come through unscathed. In addition, I like to think of myself as self contained and emotionally stable. 

Sherlock was different. He had the same unquenchable thirst for knowledge but his personality was much more volatile and emotional - everything was always not enough, it all had to be sooner, better, brighter. He got that side, I think, from our maternal grand-mere, who was frankly certifiable, but a remarkable woman. She raced camels in the Sahara and scandalised Parisian society with her numerous love affairs with both sexes, though she ended her days rescuing stray dogs in the Cote D'Azur. Sherlock inherited her passionate personality, but without her focus. He wanted life to be as exciting as he dreamed it, but wanted it delivered tied up with a bow, and unfortunately, life isn't always like that. He was happy with me but school was a problem.

...........

There was adventure at home and companionship with me. We also had another brother, about whom my parents simply do not speak, and I will not be speaking further of him, except to say that he was older than I by a year, that he was the heir to the Holmes estates and fortune, and that he died, when I was eleven and Sherlock was four. My brother was twelve. 

John stared at Mycroft. Another Holmes brother? Sherlock had never ever even mentioned his existence? How did he die, and why wouldn't Mycroft speak of it? 

One look at Mycroft's face told John that if he pressed this aspect of the revelations, it would probably be the last thing he ever did do on this Earth....he decided to park it. He had more than enough to worry about than a hidden sibling who died over a quarter of a century ago, after all, and Sherlock had been very small when it happened; that was unlikely to be behind his current meltdown.

..........

Mycroft was off again...

We managed until I went away to Uni. Sherlock was by then very bored and behaving consistently badly at school. But Mummy didn't want him to go away to boarding school yet, because he was her baby, he's seven years younger than me and they were very close, so he went to a day prep school instead, for what I believe you call 'primary school' in the state sector. He didn't seem to make friends, which I didn't either at school, but it didn't bother me, but I think it perhaps did, him. 

He was top in all the subjects that interested him like maths and chemistry and drama and geology, but made no effort in others. It was tried to address this but he would not co-operate, point blank refused; and eventually he won as usual, and it was suggested that he instead further his studies in the subjects he would actually work at. So my parents engaged highly qualified tutors in mathematics and chemistry. I had gone up early to Cambridge, so I wasn't around any longer on a regular basis to discuss the more complex subject matter with him. It seemed the perfect solution. 

At first things went well, I came back at Christmas after Michaelmas term, and Sherlock was fired up and full of enthusiasm; he even showed me some of the work. There was a makeshift lab in the old dairy and he was full of stories of burnt lab coat sleeves and his fume cupboard explosions. He had marks round his eyes from wearing his goggles so much. Honestly, I thought things were getting better, excluding the final warning from the fire brigade that they would be starting to charge for the 'excessive callouts'. 

...........

But when I returned after Trinity term for the long summer vac (I'd spent the Easter holidays abroad), things were as you would put it, 'not good'. My parents had written a long letter to me before the end of Trinity term, wanting to confirm I was coming home, as they said Sherlock had become unstable. They told me he was not eating, was prone to extreme mood swings and was actually apparently becoming violent. I was completely shocked. 

I perceived in the space of a couple of months, my parents had gone from not really adequately managing their younger son, to being more than slightly afraid of him. They had no idea what was wrong and were desperate to reconnect with him.

............

I got back late on a Friday afternoon at the beginning of July, to find Sherlock nowhere to be found in the house. I tracked him down, camped out in an old wooden summerhouse down by the small lake in the gardens. He was barricaded in using garden machinery and fence posts, and had armed himself with various makeshift weapons such as an eleven year old whose parents daren't give an allowance to, might procure. Pitchforks, craft knives, an old scythe which would probable kill from tetanus rather than blood loss it was so rusty, that manner of equipment. He also had a large quantity of petrol in cans, which I had no idea how he'd acquired, matches and rags and glass bottles and all sorts of other siege gear. He was very thin, very angry, and when I got close enough to see, there were thin knife scars in places he tried to cover. Some were new and bleeding, and others were still healing. He looked wild, he was dirty and clearly very scared. My parents told me he had been holed up there for two days. The place stank, it was very hot weather, there was no toilet in the summerhouse and he hadn't left it in that time. 

Sherlock knew I was there, mainly remaining hidden but occasionally peering round the door and staring, and then retreating back inside. He refused point blank to come out, or to discuss what had caused the bizarre behaviour he was exhibiting. He became completely hysterical when it was suggested he see a doctor. By doctor I meant a therapist or psychiatrist, to discuss his disturbing thoughts and feelings. He had never been a typical little boy, and in that context some psychological disorder was perhaps a possibility. 

But I quickly realised that Sherlock thought I meant a medical doctor. And he was terrified. I have never seen anyone so frightened, John, before or since, not even cornered targets in the course of my work.

...........

I didn't have any choice. In the end I tricked Sherlock into leaving the summerhouse. I had called several of my colleagues from work for....physical support, as he became violent and was still armed with his makeshift arsenal, and we forced him into a car and took him to a doctor. The doctors (one at first -but it quickly became more than one once they saw him) examined him, they had to sedate him to do so. Following their examination, they immediately called in the police. 

We were all questioned all night. Father and myself, especially. They didn't tell us initially what they had found that prompted it, but their choice of us for their initial focus hinted to me that they believed Sherlock had been abused, sexually, and almost certainly by someone he knew. 

Once it became clear that Father had been away on business for the most part for the past few weeks and I had been at Cambridge, both of which they verified quickly, they turned their attention to other close male contacts of my brother. It didn't take long to focus attention on the tutors. 

Both were questioned. Their homes were searched. Nothing was found at the chemistry tutors house, but at the maths tutors flat, they found some material. Not explicit but inappropriate. 

...........

Sherlock eventually told a police doctor the tutor had done things to him that hurt. He wouldn't say any more.

This man wormed his way into my baby brothers affections and then systematically abused him for weeks.'

John felt sick to his bones. His doctor persona took over, as a form of self preservation. He needed to know, at the same time as railing against his brain for needing to know.

'Mycroft, when you say he abused him, what level are we talking?' 

'He raped him on a daily basis, John. There isn't a good way to say that, is there, when discussing an eleven year old child? But that's the short version.' 

Mycroft turned his face away from John, but carried on talking in a monotone. 

'This man told Sherlock he was dirty and unclean and had led him on and tempted the man, that he was a tease and a slut and a freak (John winced visibly at the last word. He was going to have to talk to Lestrade about his officers using that word the first chance he got). He convinced Sherlock he was culpable because he sometimes experienced an erection during the abuse. He routinely used food to stuff his mouth before he raped him to keep him quiet, covering it with his school tie as a gag. 

And every day, while this went on, John, he and my parents sat down to dinner as a family and they knew nothing, and they shouted at him for refusing to eat his dinner. Because they thought his biggest problem was his plummeting weight and the fact he was not eating. And in the morning they did it again because he refused to put on his school uniform and his tie was always missing or damaged. And, then again because he couldn't possibly always have a sore throat or a stomach ache and stay off school and miss tutor lessons as he pleaded. It was only when Sherlock became completely unbalanced, that it all came to light.'

Mycroft came to a halt, his eyes closed and his hand smoothing over his hair slowly and repeatedly. He still didn't meet Johns eyes. 

............

John swallowed, to try to get rid of the lump in his throat and the bile rising and burning up to his mouth.  
'What happened to the.....this.....man......the maths tutor? ' 

Nothing. The police wanted to prosecute but some of the rape kit samples were not handled properly, and contamination made them useless as admissible evidence. Also they were two days old and Sherlock had been living rough in that time. 

Sherlock had refused to give a formal statement to the police, so they were reliant on that physical evidence, and of course his abuser denied all knowledge. He said that Sherlock was inventing it, was a disturbed fantasist, and a practised manipulator. It was clear from the physical exam that Sherlock had been abused, but proving who had done it needed Sherlock to testify. He wouldn't do it. 

Sherlock refused to cooperate with any further procedures. He came home and shortly afterwards began cutting himself badly and refusing to eat anything at all. He eventually lost so much weight, there was no choice, he was formally sectioned under the Mental Health Act, and ended up being fed via a nasal tube for some time, under physical restraint in a clinic. 

.............

Once he appeared to have stabilised, he came home, but after two days he went missing. He was missing for a month, and was found by chance by beachcomber who discovered him living rough in a small boat pulled up on a beach in Devon He was surviving on scraps of scavenged food from supermarket skips and discarded chips in bins. He was collapsed from near starvation. I went down to see him. He told me he wanted to die, and that we should leave him there, that we shouldn't have come for him.

I'm not sure which of these events was the low point, John, it was pretty much one horror after another. 

'It nearly destroyed my parents. Mummy gave up her academic work, which she loved, to care for Sherlock and my father also lost his ambitions. Now they limit themselves to gardening and their bizarre hobby of line dancing, when they are not gadding off on ghastly cruises to follow the winter sun. 

Their sacrifice was, unfortunately, largely in vain. Spending more time with Sherlock didn't make him any more controllable or any less distressed, since he'd already decided to reject human relationships almost entirely. Love and loyalty were replaced with a deep abiding bitter cynicism and distance. He even changed his name, demanding to be called Sherlock and never allowed anyone to call him William again. It was like William had died. I suppose, in a sense, he had.'

Mycroft came to a halt.  
............. The silence consumed both men for some time. 

John broke it first. He wanted to get this conversation over with, since he couldn't delete it.  
'Lets just skip back. Where is the tutor now? '

Mycroft looked at John steadily.  
'Jonathon Lang - the tutor - the child rapist - was holidaying in his canal boat on the Kennet and Avon Canal three years later. Half term, time off from his teaching duties. 

Terribly scenic, lovely Wiltshire rolling chalk grassland scenery, and he'd completed the Caen Hill long series of locks which is quite the highlight. His last highlight, as it turns out, he moored up for the night, and the following morning his body was found in the boat. It seems he had been asphyxiated by carbon monoxide from a faulty gas heater. So important to regularly check those appliances. The 'silent killer', they call it.' 

'Was it really an accident, or was it you? Did you arrange it?' 

'I can't answer that question completely directly, John, and it would serve no purpose if I did. Except to say that I regret the painless and peaceful manner of his departing this earth. Too comfortable. And to say "what would you have done if it were your own brother or sister or child?"' 

John nodded. He couldn't do otherwise. He almost didn't hear Mycroft murmur 'he was the first man I ever killed'. But he did hear. And he nodded again. 

...............

His head was processing all the shocking and disgusting detail, but his heart was aching like it was going to press through his ribs and emerge out of his chest and fall to the floor, visibly slowing and stopping. For a little boy who wasn't popular and then found a hero, only to have his hero abuse him and take his innocence and then try to blame him, over and over again. No wonder thought John bitterly, that Sherlock disliked eating and never indulged in sexual relationships. He felt slightly sick, now, at the verbal bullying he had sometimes resorted to, to force Sherlock to eat. Good doctor, shit psychologist.

'Why three years later? Why not sooner? '  
'It took time to gain the necessary level of resources and expertise, John. It wouldn't have assisted Sherlock if I had failed, or if the authorities had become involved.' 

For a man who had said he wouldn't answer this question directly, John thought, that was pretty damn direct. 

'What happened to Sherlock after he was returned from running away?' 

'He took many months to recover at least partially physically and mentally. Then went away to school, to Eton. He got academic challenge there, though he was still pretty much friendless. He attracted people like moths to a flame, and would acquire friends, but they lasted only days or a couple of weeks before he did something that made them drop him, usually deducing about their parents or their own private habits. Or not joining in with the rest, or just being rude, lashing out. Which is ironic, since he told me he was pursuing Magnusson because he preyed on people's secrets and exposed them. His murder of Magnusson was a personal crusade, and there an element of self loathing and making amends to his own childhood victims, I suspect. 

He never forgave me for the fact that I forced him into the humiliation of the medical and police procedures. He had an incredibly strong sense of dignity and self containment, even as a very little child. The abuse destroyed the protective walls which supported his fragile mental health, and the necessary processes following the exposure of the abuse made sure they couldn't be rebuilt, and gave him targets to focus his anger on. Me, usually. 

I lost him, I lost us, John, the day I made him go to the doctor and the hospital. We used to be pirates with our dog, playing down by the lake, and then later as I moved onto other things, we were friends. Happy. 

And then - after this - we were ....nothing. Distant and hostile and hating and bitter and angry. It's better than it used to be but it's never been the way we were. I don't think it ever will be.....I think he's too damaged. Sometimes I wonder if it's damaged me too.

..............

He went up to Oxford, but he never came home in the vacations, just hung around the labs, breaking into them sometimes. Or shuffling around the Parks. Actually he broke into lots of places, either to just wander around at night, if they were interesting, or to find out information he thought he needed, or just because it was something to do, to distract himself. I had to do a lot of work to park the charges with the police. His most common targets were the Pitt Rivers museum which he loved because of the crazy mix of exhibits and their bizarre nature, and the Ashmolean, though he did also break into colleges. 

His unwisest choice was All Souls, which is a graduate college you have to be invited to join, and whose members include a number of colleagues of mine in 'minor government roles'. That one was awkward for me. They don't take kindly to intruders. He interrupted a Formal Hall night when he fell through a heating vent into Hall. Several waiting staff dropped tureens. The President of Patagonia suffered third degree burns, and a promising potential foreign donor to the college was last seen squelching his way out of the porters lodge muttering about the British and their standards of hospitality and 'was this their idea of a prank'. Sherlock was rusticated for the rest of the term. 

After Prelims at the end of the first year, where he easily achieved a first in Chemistry, he seemed to lose more focus, the burglaries continued, but he also started using hard drugs, and before long dropped out of Oxford altogether; he turned into a full blown junkie. He ended up in hospital and then rehab on three occasions after overdoses. The rehab just increased the sense of resentment towards us his family, as we were the ones signing the papers for him to be sent there against his will. 

In hindsight perhaps Chemistry was an unfortunate choice of subject for an addictive personality like Sherlocks. He had dealers both in Oxford and London, initially other students both from the Uni and Oxford Brookes, but soon he was onto proper drugs and proper London dealers. Lestrade was involved in all three rescues and on the third rehab, when Sherlock eventually got some way to being clean, Lestrade let him leaf through some old cold cases at my request. He was extraordinary, what he could do with the cases, and they provided my brother with a reason to get through a day without drugs.'

Another pause. Digesting the information. 

..............

'Just a side question - did he ever try a relationship with a woman?'  
John needed the full picture whilst the secretive Mycroft was for once in talking mode. 

'No. Never. My brother loves my mother, and Mrs Hudson, and is fond of Molly, but even as a young child seemed to find women and girls a strange alien species, and he never showed attraction to them, although he can admire and be fascinated by a woman's mind. Which is ironic since that is exactly how women regarded Sherlock - as a strange alien - although in a very different way. 

Many - females - (Mycroft made it sound like something distasteful under his shoe somehow) have been attracted to my brothers undoubted beauty - yes, John, I am under no illusion about his visual charms, despite his frankly appalling behaviour towards me - he took after Mummy, all darkness and dash. 

It's said there was a scandal with one of our maternal great grandparents and a Romany gypsy but who knows ? - anyway, the point is that Sherlock has been chased by a great many women, and has never shown the slightest interest in any of them, whereas men he has a level of connection with....the magazines I would find in his school and college luggage....you may be interested or intrigued to know that all of the material was homosexual in nature.' He paused. 'Some of the material was of a 'military specialism'. Mycroft could not resist a smirk at including this detail which he knew would throw John off kilter. Johns gaze narrowed. Basically, Mycroft was reducing Johns relationship with Sherlock to the summary 'it's the uniform thing laddie'. Whatever Sherlock felt, it was a lot more complicated than a wank fantasy of John in desert combat fatigues, that much he knew. Though it was curiously interesting to learn about that side of Sherlock.....

..............

'Anyway, enough of that detail. You have the background you require now. I will leave you to ponder its connection with his relationship with you, and his current divergent behaviour; and then tomorrow I will return and ask you for your help, in helping my troubled little brother. 

Mycroft finished his story, got out of the limousine and lit a cigarette. Low tar, John noted, so he meant to smoke it to the end, and he'd seen the rest of a fresh packet in the car. This was Mycrofts version of letting rip, stress wise. 

He took one of the cigarettes himself, and exited the car, and lit it, taking long drags and exhaling hard to try to control his breathing. He hadn't smoked since Afghanistan, when it was one of the few pleasures. Now, he needed it to relieve his stress and panic. In-out. In-out. Breathe....

He tried to put the video images to the back of his mind but they were tattooed across his eyes and burnt into his brain. John wasn't sure they would ever be erased. He hated Mycroft for that. 

He thought he might hate Sherlock for it too, until the images of a small frightened dirty skinny little boy, holding the world at bay with a knife, starving himself deliberately in a clinic, and then overdosing in a back alley, laid themselves like a blanket over the footage and burned it all to blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for description of historic child sexual abuse


	5. John considers courses of action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby Watson. An unravelling Sherlock. You have to feel for John.

John stood motionless outside his front door, for some time after Mycroft's car had slid away into the dark and inky gloom. He couldn't process what he had seen of Sherlock's behaviour, which disturbed John in a way he couldn't analyse and didn't especially want to.

He acknowledged to himself at least this: he was more affected by Sherlock's behaviour on the CCTV tape than it would technically warrant: Sherlock was a mostly willing participant (perhaps excluding the oral sex); he was of age and most crucially he was definitely not in a relationship with John. He was a completely free agent. John had seen plenty of porn, and so wasn't shocked by the sight of adults having sex; although his porn preferences had, to date, been limited those involving man and woman, or occasionally man and several women; rather than two men (or three in this case).

If Sherlock wanted to have rough sex with two men against a bin in an alleyway, that was his business. Wasn't it? He wished he was more convinced by his own conclusions, and also, that he had not seen the gift of drugs at the end of the sex session. How consensual was the activity? Was Sherlock so readily addicted because of his history, that he couldn't refuse an ultimatum? Why didn't he insist on condoms? Did he know that sex wasn't supposed to be like that, or not unless everyone was OK with it? He hadn't looked OK with it. Hadn't looked OK with anything.

John didn't know, he just couldn't get past the nausea of seeing Sherlock engaging in that way, with that expression of hate and utter misery. He decided he was going to have to put this whole episode into a firmly closed box marked 'Do Not Open for Your Mental Well Being' for a while. 

John couldn't anticipate what Mycroft was going to ask him to do about it, anyway, and he eventually came to the conclusion, that whatever the urgency of the search, right now, John had a baby coming. If his help was still needed after the baby was born, fine. He would do whatever he could. At the moment, despite the clawing dread in his guts, his child came first. 

Mary - well, Mary was more complicated. He hadn't forgiven her, he wasn't sure he ever would. At the moment he neither loved her nor desired her, his love for her speared through its heart by her shooting Sherlock: he saw her now primarily as someone who was precious solely because of the prize she carried. The baby - his baby, a baby he longed for now more than anything else in the world. The baby was all that mattered to John.....

.............

.....But then, again, like a whirling carousel in his brain, Sherlock's past, the terrible trauma he had experienced, vividly came to mind. John had encountered child abuse cases occasionally in his GP work, mostly physical abuse but a couple involving sexual abuse too. Nothing on this scale though, not where the victim was already, to be blunt, a fragile and vulnerable individual psychologically. 

No wonder it had such a devastating effect on Sherlock. It explained so much that was strange and unusual about him. His reluctance to be involved in relationships, his use of words as weapons to keep people at bay, his troubled relationship with Mycroft and the latter's almost obsessive concern with his brothers safety and wellbeing, even the clothes Sherlock wore like a uniform. Formal, controlled, beautiful, luxurious. 'Look at this, world. Gaze upon this. Appreciate it from a distance, for you will come no closer. I stay alone. This is my power over you, and more than that, this is my protection. No, I will wear these gloves when I shake your hand. ' 

And then John considered Sherlock's choked and emotional but reserved words at the airfield, his removal of his glove to shake Johns hand which had made John stare and stare, frozen for long pointless wasted moments; and Mycrofts blunt assessment that Sherlock loved John. Loved him. Would kill for John. Would die for John. His certainty about his priorities wavered. 

............ 

How had he not known? John knew he normally had a good radar for sensing others being attracted to, or emotionally connected to him. 

But then a memory did creep in, of a time at Barts, during his medical training. He'd had a house share with three other guys. Been close to one of them, Miles, really good mates, almost like brothers. They talked for hours at night. Yet he hadn't known that Miles was in love with him for months and months. Hadn't known, until one day when John was six weeks into a very active relationship with a sexy and enthusiastic nurse called Katrina, when Miles picked a random and bizarre blazing row with John, about why he, Miles, had again, as usual, had to buy new plates for the communal kitchen because John refused to allow his large collection of very average crockery to be pooled like everyone else in the house. 

It wasn't about the plates. It really wasn't about the plates. They ended up throwing punches, Miles collecting a broken nose, and John two broken fingers, and while they waited in casualty to be seen, Miles told John that he was in love with him, had always been in love with him, couldn't bear to not be with him. John was poleaxed. Didn't know what to say. Should have seen it months ago but never saw it coming. Miles, crushed by John's shock and his damning silence, left soon afterwards on an international placement with a medical research company. John hadn't seen him since.

................

So, John concluded, that it was indeed possible for him to be unaware of another persons feelings. And he excused himself, by thinking Sherlock's unusual personality and the protective shell he erected, would have assisted in Johns ignorance. Still, he wondered, how had he not seen it?

John was tortured by trying to work out what he felt. Physical attraction, he knew, his body betrayed him in the most obvious ways in the detectives presence although he tried to conceal or avoid situations where this might be obvious. 

His coats might not be Sherlock's Belstaff length but they did the job of concealing the unwanted evidence. He avoided situations where he or Sherlock would be less than fully dressed, that part much easier since he stopped living at Baker Street though the ache he felt, even when he was first with Mary, never went away. He was happy, but it was almost as if he was 80% of John. So 100% happy of that still left 20% empty echoing void. 

Deep, enduring friendship and regard, certainly. 

Love? Romantic, all encompassing, obsessive love? Here John struggled. He was in love with Mary. OK, rewind, he fell in love with Mary when Sherlock was dead. And then he was suddenly alive. And then Mary shot him. Pretty much dead again. And now Sherlock was alive, here, apparently loving John? John groaned? How could he choose? 

He couldn't choose, he told himself. So he returned to his initial conclusion. There was a baby coming. His baby. A baby who didn't choose the messed up triptych of faked deaths, an assassin mother and drug taking detectives. The baby was coming. That had made his choice. There was no choice. Not now. Maybe not ever. 

..................

Mary was sitting in the living room, thumbing through a celebrity gossip magazine when John re-entered the house. Its pages appeared well thumbed and he suspected it had been re-read a number of times waiting for him. She contemplated him as he stalked in and headed for the drinks cabinet, pouring himself a large, neat, scotch. Not his usual choice. 

She knew they must have been talking about the search and about Sherlock, but why had it taken so long? And why was only John privy to the discussion? Cold fingers of fear crept up her spine and embedded there. She brushed her fingers over her belly instinctively and protectively.

'John. I know you might not be able to tell me everything you and Mycroft have just discussed. 

But can you tell me right now, please, that you are NOT leaving this house to chase after Sherlock Holmes when our baby is a week from due being born?'

She sounded brittle. 

Johns fingers clamped harder around the glass. His voice sounded old and tired. He felt old and tired and cornered. 

'I will not be going anywhere, Mary. This search for Moran needs to go on, but I can't participate until after the baby is born. Maybe even not then. '

'Is Sherlock in trouble? Mycroft came here. Did he ask you to help?' 

John considered his answer carefully.  
' Sherlock appears to have got himself into quite a lot of trouble. I can't go into details. 

But I'm not sure whether it is trouble he has fallen into, trouble which has befallen him, or trouble which he is seeking out as a more interesting way to top himself than the 'dull' methods he despises in those he reads about in the newspapers. 

Right now, you and I need a good nights sleep, and Mycroft, if he calls tonight, will find my phone switched off. I don't want to discuss it further tonight.'

...............

Of course it wasn't that simple. It never bloody was. John lay awake long into the hours of darkness, when the only sounds that should have disturbed his rest were the occasional police siren or fox bark. Mary slept beside him, quiet and still, but John lay on his back, restless and troubled. 

Tomorrow Mycroft would return, having left John to absorb the information he had been given. He would ask John for help to rescue his baby brother from his downward spiral of behaviour. 

What the fuck was he going to tell Mycroft?


	6. Meeting with Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to take some decisions. It doesn't really work out as he wishes.

Mycroft was nothing if not punctual. It must be easier to do that, John thought, when you had black limos and minions on tap. He was feeling tired and bad-tempered when Mycroft had left the previous evening, and the night had done nothing to improve matters. 

Now it was 8am, he was facing a Mycroft gaze across the coffee table, and he didn't know what it was he was supposed to say. 

Then suddenly, he did know what to say. 

'I'll talk to him. If you can get him somewhere we can meet. Before the baby comes. That's all I will do. 

After the baby is here and everything's going ok, I'll do more. If I can. But not until then.' 

Mycroft bowed his head. He knew that for once, he didn't hold all the aces. The baby did. He reflected silently that the survival and thriving of this yet unborn child, a child which he strongly suspected might not be John's, might directly lead to the wretched end of his brothers life. 

Mycroft was of course considering whether the baby's parentage should be genetically tested, but that would be difficult until it was born. And the impact of a test ordered by a Holmes on John's willingness to assist Sherlock: - well, Mycroft wasn't too sure on that? Nor on whether the revelation that he wasn't the father, would automatically mean a break-up between John and Mary. It should, and he thought it would; but the test results would need to be out as soon as possible to avoid John becoming too bonded with the child. He determined that this was the course that would be instigated. Naturally he said none of this aloud. 

'Thankyou, John. Of course. I understand the difficult position you are in, in respect of ....Mary....and the baby. 

I will make the necessary arrangements. Obviously the meeting cannot take place here and will need to be a safe location. 

Mycroft swept from the room, and back into the embrace of London luxury and privilege. John sat, alone again, in the living room of the safe house, rubbed his fingers over his eyes, and wondered what he was going to say to Sherlock. He had so much information now about Sherlock's past, his dark desperate childhood, and all of it Sherlock would hate him for having. This was a no-win bet, John felt sure. Mycroft must have been desperate if this was his best throw of the dice. He didn't much like being the gambling chip.

..........

The meeting was set up for the following day. 

Then - an hour before the due time - it was summarily cancelled. Mycroft telephoned, and murmured utterings about 'pepper spray....incapacitated security detail......overdose.....Kings College Hospital.....stable now.'

So instead of meeting Sherlock in neutral, secure, sober territory; which would have been manageable and offer easy escape routes once enough had been said, John was to meet him in a heavily guarded private hospital room in Kings College Hospital, as Sherlock came down from (it appeared this time) a generous overdose of cocaine. Great. Just great. 

John promised Mary he wouldn't be more than three hours door-to-door. She was tired, but amenable to him seeing Sherlock, she knew he'd have to talk with him. Though she knew nothing of why. John found the right room at Kings fairly easily, and Mycroft ensured his smooth progress through the multiple levels of security surrounding the patient. 

John walked into the room. 

..............

Sherlock was lying still in the hospital bed, his arms attached to various drips and equipment, his head turned directly away from the door. John thought he might be asleep, and closed the door quietly, but as soon as he started to walk across to the chair at the side of the bed, Sherlock spoke, his rich baritone sounding fainter and less commanding than normal. 

'John.' His voice rasped oddly. 'Why have you come? You should be with Mary.' 

He turned his face further down to the pillow, away from John, who couldn't see his expression.

John took a deep breath. 

'I came because we need to talk, Sherlock'

'There's nothing to talk about. You have a wife, and a baby just about to arrive. I have a mission and judicial noose hanging over me. I'm apparently finding it hard to concentrate, John, as you can see from my current.....accommodation, without having to worry about what you are thinking too. Go home. Leave me be. You know what I am, what I do. What I've always been. Look after Mary and look after your baby. That's what I killed Magnusson to give you. Don't throw it back in my face.' 

John tried again. He was going to have to disclose some of the information he knew in order to tell Sherlock why he could not do - completely - what Sherlock was asking of him. 

'Sherlock. I know about the drugs. We need to talk about those. When you're feeling better. But I now know about the other stuff too. I know you are embracing danger for its own sake at the moment, in other situations. Sexual situations. Why?' John knew his phrasing sounded stilted and stuffy but was only able to refer to the subject in that clinical, abstract way. Like a doctor. 

Sherlock turned his head and looked at John for the first time since he had entered the room. John was shocked by the gaunt appearance of his features and the empty hopelessness in his eyes. And the look of defiance. 

His voice suddenly hardened and he almost spat out the words that followed.

'Mycroft has been showing you his collection of video nasties, has he? I assumed he'd have footage of at least some of my tender assignations. I hope you weren't too shocked, I know that Mycroft and The Woman have made me out to be inexperienced in the ways of sex, but as you saw, it really couldn't be further from the case. 

Obviously as you remind everyone, you're "not gay", but perhaps there might still have been some useful tips there for your girlfriends in blowjob techniques? Or did you turn your head away in shocked heterosexual outrage and disgust? Choke on your popcorn? Sorry if you didn't enjoy the movie. Close the door when you leave.' Once he had finished speaking, Sherlock slumped back on the pillow and closed his eyes. Dismissing John. 

.............

John felt angry. So angry, he folded his arms, tucking his hands underneath his elbows to prevent them from taking on a will of their own, and beating an in-patient to a pulp in their hospital bed. He knew he had issues with anger control, and here was not the right time or place, and Sherlock was not the right target for his own failings, however provocative Sherlock could be.

'No, Sherlock. I didn't "enjoy it". Watching it. Watching you. Doing that. Not. At. All. But not because I have an issue with gay sex or multiple partners or casual encounters, I couldn't care less what people do if it's safe and consensual and enjoyable. I don't even mind when they turn up at A&E with weird objects wedged unfeasibly up their backsides, that they need doctors like me to remove. It's all fine. But I mind, I MIND, Sherlock, because you looked fucking miserable, coerced by drug-dealers, and like you were doing it because you hated yourself too much to trust yourself in a loving relationship with anyone.

Now I am going to sit on this chair and I am going to speak to you, and I want you to listen. If you want to regard it as an order, you can. I don't give a shit. You once referred to yourself as my ex-commander. Now I turn the tables. You will lie there, and you will listen to me, and you will not interrupt or throw your toys out of the pram, because Sherlock, I do not have much time and I need you to hear this.' 

John drew his chair close to the detectives head and put his mouth close to Sherlock's ear. He took a deep breath. He was about to take a big gamble. 

'Sherlock. I know about Jonathon Lang.'

A silent violent cringe from the otherwise still figure lying in the bed was the only reaction. John couldn't see his face. 

'I know about the phobia about eating, the sex, the running away. I know about it all, and why you are doing what you are doing; and I am here to tell you that, baby or no baby for me to be concerned about, I also care about you, and what you are doing now is killing me as fast as it is killing you and I want it to stop now, Sherlock. Now. 

NOW. '

Johns hand slammed down on the chair arm and the loud thump sounded around the room. 

John was prepared for shock or violent rage as a reaction. Instead there was complete silence. The only sounds were John's breathing, and the beeps and hisses of the equipment supporting Sherlock's body as he struggled to overcome the chemical abuse he was throwing at it. 

The silence lasted for perhaps a minute, John could see by his watch face. It was incredible how long a minute of complete silence sounds, he reflected. 

Then Sherlock spoke, his voice still low. Rasping. Cold, so, so cold.

'It was very kind of you to visit me John, though I must admit I'm disappointed that you haven't brought any flowers or grapes. They are after all the conventional gifts for a hospital patient and you are, after all John, a very.... conventional ....man.....

Whilst I am very ...grateful for your concerns, especially as a doctor, I suggest that you concentrate on your NHS funded and privately paying patients in future.'

' I do not require, or need, your help with my issues, now or in the future, John. I do not want to be your case study, charity fix-it or wank fantasy when you tire of your lovely wife's charms. You have a new life, in all senses and I suggest you return to it now, instead of indulging yourself in the delusion that you can, in the parlance of the women's magazines your wife is so fond of reading, Have It All. Perfect marriage and arm's length occasional friendship with me. You can't. You made your choice, John. That was your right, and I supported your choice. And now, as is my right, I have made mine. I don't want to be your mate, John, your buddy. It isn't enough, will never be enough. I should have realised that earlier. I'm sorry I didn't. 

You express horror that my actions may be killing me. Do you really think that this represents some kind of effective deterrent right now? If I desist from these paths, is there some rosy future lying ahead that I'm as yet unaware of? 

You threw my past at me as evidence that you 'understand', that now you can explain me, explain my behaviour and as you see them, my weaknesses. Maybe you can "cure" me. 

John, you have no fucking idea. You knowing that, the things, that no one should ever know, just makes the whole thing so much worse, so much more unbearable. Perhaps you could let Mycroft know that, when he comes to reflect on why he decided to break the last confidence between us I had thought inviolable?

Now I am going to ring the call bell because I am finding this discussion less than conducive to my early release from this place, which I require in order that I may continue my life. My life John. Not yours, not Mycroft's. Not seeking your approval. Mine. ' 

With that, Sherlock rolled over onto his side, facing away from John and pressed the call button to summon the medical staff. 

John didn't wait to be ejected. He got up, placed a hand briefly on Sherlock's side, feeling the heat of his skin soak through into his flesh, then the flinch away from him. He shook his head, then left the room. 

Mycroft was waiting outside.  
'Just give me a few minutes, please, Mycroft. Bathroom....' 

John just reached the men's toilets before he, for the second time in the last few days, and caused by the same persons behaviour, vomited violently. 

He outlined the hopeless conversation to Mycroft in detail, and then, he left.


	7. Baby Watson arrives...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have used some artistic licence with respect to Baby Watson's eye colour at birth, since I know that babies are usually born with pale eyes and that brown colouring likely wouldn't develop until a little way later. However I have reflected the fact that blue+blue can occasionally produce brown eyes so hopefully you will forgive me on the first bit!

John and Mary's baby was born three days later, in the early hours of the morning, a tiny package of powerful lungs and helplessness. John, who had been both brittle and quiet since his return from visiting Sherlock in hospital, was present at the birth, at this so much more joyful occasion, at the emergence of this tiny wonderful miracle. 

The baby girl was a week premature but healthy, although small. 

John loved her from the first moment he set eyes on her. His thoughts were full of plans and hopes and dreams for his first born child. His angel. His Rebecca. 

................

But even as he gazed at her blonde beauty, the doctor in John began knocking on doors in his brain, and ringing alarm bells. Doctor John knew that while it was technically possible for he and Mary, two blue eyed parents, to give birth to a daughter with brown eyes, it really wasn't very likely. Maybe a one in ten chance? 

Mycroft didn't need to sneak a DNA test. John beat him to it. He took a hair from his own head, and a hair from Rebecca's, when Mary was asleep. He felt sick and guilty in almost equal measure both with the subterfuge and the mere fact of his doubt. The results, when they came back, however, led him to shut himself in a cubicle of the gents toilets to ring Mycroft. 

'She's not mine.' 

'No, John. She is not.' Mycroft didn't sound remotely surprised. Had he known about Mary and Rebecca's father? John decided not to ask. But he could ask for a favour, in return for not asking about that.

'I want you to do something for me. I want you to get me a sample of Mary's ex, David's DNA. And - I also want a sample of Jim Moriartys DNA. '

John got the sample. The comparison test was done. The result was positive. For one of the samples. But not the one John half expected. 

............

Rebecca was not John's child. She was Moriartys. Jim Moriarty. The man - the spider - who had forced Sherlock to fake suicide, wrapped John in a Semtex vest and blown up buildings with blind terrified old ladies inside. That was the man his wife had chosen to father her child and pass it off as John's. Jim. Fucking. Moriarty. Moriarty was dead. How had he fathered the child? John the doctor didn't take long to come up with the scenario, but it made him all the more bitter because of the planning and organisation needed. This was all part of the plan. She was in it up to her fucking eyeballs with Jim. Freeze his sperm in nitrogen. Create Jim's legacy by impregnating herself at a credible time for it to be John's. Double win. She gets a child to tie John to her. Jim gets his immortality via the child. And if they do ever find out, well, all the better, burn their hearts out. The longer they took to realise, the more completely John gets destroyed. They just hadn't thought about the eyes....

...............

There was, in the end, no big confrontation; no dramatic showdown. John had his dignity and precious little else right now. So John walked in, gave Mary the paperwork, and let her read it. She started to try to speak, but John simply pointed to the sleeping Rebecca and shook his head. Don't wake the baby. She shrugged. Fucking shrugged. ................ He left Mary with the piece of paper he had thrust silently into her face, unable to speak for the bitter tears flowing down his face, and the choking feeling in his throat, and consigned the baby under Mycrofts men to guard, and then, he simply walked out of the hospital. Out of their lives. Mycroft was going to take care of Mary and the baby's safety a very long way away from John (as he regarded himself as the biggest threat in that regard right now), and would also arrange for a quick divorce on the basis Mary had given a false identity. John had hoped for annulment but apparently that required both parties to be in on the identity fraud. John might have been able in time to forgive Mary for an affair, maybe with David her ex, but not Moriarty. Not ever. 

In time, Mycroft told him, Mary's skills were likely to mean a new role for her as a Six field agent, providing she could convince her superiors that she was trustworthy enough. Rebecca would have nannies and boarding school and ponies and a completely false idea of what Mummy did for a living. And some mug would buy the story and play daddy to the little girl John saw being born and had thought was his daughter. Not John though. That life was gone. 

..............

After sitting for an hour in a small park which looked as if it was made up of a remnant of a bombed out site from the Blitz in WW2, John slowly took off his wedding ring, and with reddened eyes, pushed open the door of the nearest pawn shop which advertised cash for gold. He didn't care about the money, but the presence of the ring on his finger was making him feel ill and he didn't want to feel it in his pocket or see it on his bedside table. He accepted what they offered him for the ring and walked out. There wasn't much left in his stomach to throw up, but it betrayed him again (ironic, that) and John did the best he could. He made sure to avoid the part of the gutter when the kerb dropped for the disabled to cross the road however. 

.........

Six hours later John was downing the dregs of his fifth pint, and slumping against the upholstered back of the pub's less than comfortable seating. Football broadcast from somewhere that wasn't Britain with very tanned and sweaty players, was blaring out from the ceiling mounted TVs, and the noise clashed with the jukebox playing happily to itself in the corner of the bar. John realised he neither cared about the disallowed goal, the referees parentage, nor whether cowboys really wore rhinestones. The beer wasn't the best kept but it was doing the job. 

His eyes closed. Just for a minute or two. 

He awoke to a clap on the back. Lestrade. How the hell had Lestrade found him? He'd intended to stay here all evening and then book into a cheap hotel. He couldn't go home. Not to the flat he shared with Mary. Had shared with Mary. And not to 221B, which would be filled with sensory reminders of the bitterness between himself and Sherlock, always assuming it wasn't a fully fledged crack den by now, of course. He didn't belong to either of those places anymore. 

Lestrade wasn't looking especially friendly though, thought John. More stressed out. 

'Greg. All right?'  
That was about as complicated a sentence as John could muster. 

'I am. But you aren't. Come on, we're going.'  
Lestrade shoved John to his feet. 

'Going.....going where?'

'Where you can be of use instead of drowning yourself in self pity. Where you can help Sherlock. And then where you can help us catch Moran before he catches us.'

They reached the outside of the pub and John groaned as the familiar shape of a black limousine pulled up silently. He looked at Lestrade. 'Why are you doing their dirty work?' 

'Didnt Mycroft tell you? I'm doing a bit of moonlighting for the dark side now. Just as a hobby of course.' He laughed. 'Apparently he's paying me but it's into some expenses account in the Cayman Islands. Not sure about all that stuff. Hope it's not just a tax scam to pay for umbrellas and torture chambers. Get in.' 

\------

The limousine took the men to Mycroft's house. Like the man himself, his London home was tall, patrician and undeniably snooty. It felt more akin to a discreet London hotel than someone's home, in Johns eyes, but since he was currently technically homeless, and it was this or the Travel Tavern (nice comfy beds, odd cross-section of society as fellow guests, questionable possibly pre-licked boiled sweets at Reception), John decided to embrace his inner luxury slut and go with the flow. 

Besides which, he was exhausted as well as about as depressed as he'd been since he had spent long dreary nights in the tiny army funded bedsit practising putting the muzzle of his (loaded) Browning into his mouth without gagging. Pretty low then.... 

.................

Mycroft wasn't there when Lestrade and John arrived, but that didn't matter too much when there were staff on tap. A cook had already prepared dinner, leaving it in the fridge, and it was a quick task to heat it up. Fragrant Thai green chicken curry. It was delicious. John realised how hungry he was, it seemed a long time since he had eaten...he couldn't really remember when he had. Maybe he was mirroring Sherlock. There was lager too, ice cold. This kind of luxury both John and Greg really did appreciate. Not quite like the fine wines and rare Scotch Mycroft himself would prefer.

After dinner, the two men sat in the drawing room, surrounded by austere panelling (the restrained kind of the 1730s, Queen Anne, rather than the over the top embellishments of later decades), as the wall lamps glowed a golden light in soft puddles across the room. 

Lestrade and John drank their beers and chatted about football and politics and other manly skirting around the edge topics but after an hour or so, that light conversation was exhausted and Lestrade looked at John with tired, concerned eyes. 

'Mycroft told me about you visiting Sherlock at the hospital. I admire you for doing that. He didn't tell me much. Not what you spoke about, I know there's some stuff that isn't for general consumption, stuff about Sherlock, past stuff - and I don't ask about that. '

'How do you know there's....stuff?'

'Just something Mycroft mentioned when we did the last rescue mission when Sherlock OD'd - well, I should amend that, the last one before before you two met. When he was younger. He said it I think, to add persuasion for us not to charge Sherlock for all the offences. We were well outside our rule book and Mycroft knew it. He said that Sherlock had been through stuff that would make taking drugs not a weakness, but more as a totally rational decision to escape his brain, as an alternative to committing suicide. 

For all Mycroft can be a ponce and a smug git, the look on his face when he told me that was chilling, and it did swing the balance towards sweeping it all under the carpet. But also on that rescue, Sherlock got really uncontrollable when the medics had to put the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. I mean he was high which didn't help but it was clearly more than that.'

...............

John nodded. He was glad Sherlock had Lestrades paternal influence as a rock.  
'If it's any help so long after the events, Greg, you made the right call. Sherlock is astounding that he's here at all, I think, given what I know now, and it isn't stuff that is going to go away. Just stuff to work through and deal with and hopefully manage. Thank you for not pushing me on the nature of the events, I couldn't tell you anyway, but more than that, I feel Mycroft telling me, and Sherlock knowing that he did, may have backfired spectacularly and I wouldn't want you put in the same position. To be honest, I don't know why he did tell me.' 

Greg grimaced.  
'Mycroft is fantastic at meddling in global politics when it's people he doesn't care about. And he doesn't really care about anyone much. Except Sherlock. And that's his downfall. He tries his best to protect his brother but the fact Sherlock is his pressure point, his parents too but less intimately, he feels more responsible for Sherlock, that clouds his judgement and vision. To Mycroft, knowledge is always a good thing for him to have. Sherlock shares that view. But sharing knowledge based on desperation is a dangerous game. He must have felt the situation warranted the gamble.'

John grunted in agreement. 'Or in our case, not sharing it when they should. For two years, Greg.

Anyway, aside from the fact Sherlock hates my guts and doesn't know about what's happened with the baby....' At this Lestrade winced in sympathy, but didn't ask and John suspected Mycroft had filled him in on that particular subject....'he's really gone off the rails recently. The pressure of this mission and how he's dealing or not with - other stuff - is bringing the damage right back, and he's playing with fire. With the drugs, but also in his sex life....'

Lestrade stared at John.  
'I didn't know he had a partner, boy or girl, well, except for maybe you and him....?

John sighed.  
'We weren't...it wasn't like that. I know what people think, they've always thought that. It doesn't make it true. And he doesn't have a boyfriend as far as I know, hasn't ever, or a girlfriend. He seems to gain his fulfilment in life through his brains work. Until recently anyway.'

Lestrade nodded.  
'Well I've certainly never seen him with anyone, that way. But you, that was different? Is different. You know he's mad about you, don't you? I mean, crazy like I've never seen anyone?' 

John sighed again. If Sherlock was in love with him he had a very strange way of showing it, right now. He looked away, unwilling to see Lestrade echo Mycrofts words.

.................

Actually Lestrade was worse to listen to, and continued unabashed.

'Have you not ever been at least tempted, you know, even for a fling? I've been both sides of the fence, John, and well, I have to be honest, the mechanics aren't that terribly different? And with a man as beautiful and passionate as Sherlock, well....I'm not sure I know many of even the straightest of guys who wouldn't be a little bit tempted? He's never interested back, is the problem for them - but he's completely different with you.' 

John yelled. He wasn't sure if anyone ever yelled in Mycrofts house but he was doing it now. He hoped it wouldn't set off level Nine alarms or close down Sector Z. 

'Greg, please! Sherlock may be gay, looks like it pretty much....But I'm not, he's never told me he has feelings for me beyond a close friendship and that's the bloody end of it.' (It wasn't really the end of it, but John couldn't explain to Greg what he couldn't yet explain to himself).

'Added to which, Greg, there's something you don't know. Right now, he's having a lot of sex with a lot of people, ones he doesn't know, and not always serially or indoors.'

.................

Lestrades eyes widened and his mouth opened and closed silently. He regarded John carefully. 

'Im not even going to ask how you know that but I'm assuming if you're sure about that, it involves a nosy brother and a wall mounted camera, and now I'm not sure that my dinner is staying down? I'm really surprised. To me Sherlock must be seriously losing his grip for that to be his chosen path. Now I am getting worried, I'll concede it. I'd better tell my patrols to contact me or Mycroft if they pick him up for - any of that indecency rap then, to add to the drugs. 

John, I also ought to come clean, he's doing some stupid shit in the mission too. We're taking out the ring of players around Moran, especially the financial support and logistical backup, to try and get the network weakened enough to break through to Moran himself. 

Sherlocks supposed to be working with us, planning and executing raids and also undertaking hits on marks that he and Mycroft have identified. Instead of that, he's basically acting like a feral animal, using the information he's given and blundering in alone and unprotected. I'm not sure if he's trying to prove himself a hero, or this is another way of topping himself, or both, but we've had to risk officers and agents lives twice since he came back, extricating him from messes he's created doing this and my overlords are beginning to get very twitchy. It can't go on. If it does he'll be locked up in a secure location until this is over and I don't like to think what that would do to his mental state.'

John looked at Lestrade and frowned. He knew what it would do to Sherlocks mental state and it involved John attending another funeral, this time for real. But he didn't see what he could do.  
'I agree. But. What do you expect me to do about it?'

'I think that's a discussion we need Mycroft involved in. (Though I grant that Mycrofts discussions rarely involve other parties doing much discussing).'

The two men looked at each other.


	8. The decision

.........'Indeed it does, Gregory. But perhaps with the addition of the star attraction, our smelly ragged trousered rebel.'

The door opened, and John looked on open mouthed, as an immaculately dressed Mycroft entered, followed by a once again dirty and mutinous looking Sherlock. For a man not far off forty, the resemblance to a naughty child was remarkable.

Mycroft looked around at John and Greg, and smiled that Mycroft small smile, that one that didn't reach his eyes. 

'Shall we get comfortable? I shall ring for coffee and tea, for those that go in for that kind of thing. Or Scotch for the grown ups.'

Mycroft regarded his brother, who was slumped bodily on the immaculate cream linen sofa; his dirty trainers already leaving marks which would be very hard for Mrs G to remove, with distaste. He decided to choose his battles, and ignore the provocation. He then fixed his attention on John, who was looking as if he would prefer to be imminent roadkill than sitting in this room with Dirty Sherlock. 

..............

Here was the battle, thought Mycroft. Both of the 221B pair ranged against him. His junkie whoring lovesick little brother with the self-esteem of a twig; and his brothers former flatmate, the army doctor whose principles gave him the appearance of having a stick up his arse, but who inconveniently didn't seem to fancy anything else up there. The man who had the curious combination of a mania for saving lives combined with a willingness to use sniper skills to rub out anyone who was threatening Sherlock. And the man who still seemed to be in denial about the relationship between himself and Sherlock: which pairing could be the only thing to save Sherlock from being sectioned or sent to secure rehab. Or worse.

Mycroft spoke.  
'Doctor Watson. The last time we spoke you were unwilling to become immediately involved in the operation to take out Moran and his cohorts, because of the impending arrival of your child.'

Mycrofts voice lowered in tone and became slightly louder. He wanted everyone in the room to hear.

'A child who turned out not to be yours, but James Moriartys.' 

Sherlocks eyes widened and his mouth opened. He looked as shocked as John had ever seen him. He stared at John. Stared, unblinking, just stared. John adopted military straightness and looked dead ahead. He did not meet Sherlocks gaze. He couldn't.

'Thankyou for that announcement, Mycroft. I think you may actually be a bigger shit than I'd previously thought, and that's pretty good going, believe me.'

'John, given the....recent sudden change in your circumstances ...I would like to ask you to review your decision and consider now assisting more directly in this project?  
(Sherlock was still staring at John)  
'More specifically I would like to request, John, that you move back to 221B, and that you work with Sherlock to regularise his input into current police and security operations, to ensure his and others safety, as well as providing him with the medical and moral support to ensure he does not fall prey to the other unsavoury, and sometimes illegal, habits which have recently raised their heads.

This will have a dual benefit of removing direct threats to your own lives, but also the threats posed by Sherlocks own actions.

Will you do it, Doctor Watson?' 

.............

Mycroft looked tense. Sherlock was still staring at John. Had he blinked at all? John wondered if he was high? He didn't think so but he couldn't bring himself to meet the detectives gaze or look at his arms, and so he had to go on instinct. Not high. Just shocked and off kilter. 

John looked at Mycroft.  
'The last time Sherlock saw me he practically told me I was dead to him. Whilst the current stony silence is an improvement, what makes you think he will accept this big brother handler type arrangement? What's changed?' 

Mycroft regarded John calmly now. He glanced across at Sherlock, who had got up but almost immediately sat down heavily. Looking white and distressed. Chewing his lip hard. Glancing at John. Looking away. Looking down. 

'Everything. He is no longer way down your priority list, John. Whatever Sherlock thinks or feels about life currently , the one certainty is that in the last few years, the only thing that has consistently kept him off drugs and emotionally stable is, bizarrely, the constant enveloping presence of one Doctor John H Watson, living with him at 221...Bee.... (Mycroft always gave the diminutive letter with such disdain) Baker Street.

He lost you John. You married, you expected a child, you had a child. None of which he could compete with. You got exactly what you insisted you had always wanted. Sherlock would not be willing or able to fight that, because he wanted you to be happy. He supported you every step of the journey you claimed you wanted to make, even though it destroyed him. 

Now, John, it is clear that this perfect life was a mirage. 

Not just because of Mary's lies, and her attempted murder of my brother, but also because of the paternity of the baby. But perhaps most importantly, John, the fact that before that last fact was known, you were staying with Mary because of, and only because of, that baby. You already knew that suburban domestic life was not enough for you, and that living with someone whose whole existence was a lie, was impossible to sustain. Please do interject if I am wildly off the mark, John' 

..............

John didn't say anything in response to Mycroft. His fists were clenched tight, his face equally tense. How could he? It was true. He craved convention and railed against it once he had it. 

There was a long silence. 

He considered walking out, walking away, back to the Army flat. Back to a bottle of whisky and the swift cold merciful conclusion of his Sig into his brain. 

Then, he remembered William who became Sherlock, who didn't eat and couldn't deal with friends, and who nearly died so many times. 

And instead of walking out, and walking away, he turned, and looked at Sherlock for the first time. Really looked at him. Met his eyes. Beautiful eyes. 

................

'Lets hear from the man himself then?' 

Sherlock peered out from below straggling dark curls that looked as if they could do with a very thorough wash. He now looked terrible, haggard, in shock. His eyes flickered to John and then looked away, almost as though he was embarrassed. The man who was never embarrassed. John thought his eyes were too bright. Tears? 

Staring at his (still very dirty but now on the floor at least) shoes, Sherlock blinked a few times and then finally spoke. Very quietly. Almost a whisper.

'Come back - if you want to. Better at Baker Street. Your room is still there. Some equipment to move out of it though, just spare stuff. Flasks, dishes. Nothing decaying. I don't know if it will help or not, you being there. It might be worse. Hmmm. With you there. Or better? I don't know. Finding it hard to concentrate. Could help maybe. I don't think there's food there. Haven't been...in....much. You might need to sweep the flat too for....mmm...stuff.'

Sherlock looked under his lashes at Lestrade as he said the last part, but Lestrade was studiously consulting his mobile text messages and didn't appear to have caught any of it.

................

John made a decision. 

Partly as a doctor, Sherlock clearly needed the kind of care he hadn't required for some years. Some of that was a doctors care. John could provide that better than anyone. It would give him a renewed sense of purpose. And God, he needed that right now.

Partly as Sherlocks former flatmate, John had realised while they had been talking here by the fire in this London home, just how bloody much he had missed 221B. It wouldn't be the same as before his marriage, before the Fall, they were different people now, scarred by events, but he still craved it. A big part of him was missing when he wasn't there, and he was going to slot that part back in the picture.

Partly as Sherlocks handler, his right hand man, someone to cover his back when things went pear shaped but also to try to prevent that crisis from happening in the first place. 

Partly, partly .....partly.....as someone who didn't really know how he felt about Sherlock? Confused. That was as far as he got. He'd never really had to confront his feelings before. Either he'd figured Sherlock wasn't interested in any relationships involving physical contact, including with John, or he'd figured he wasn't gay so it wasn't an issue anyway. That was easier. Now, now was harder. He wasn't gay, but his feelings for Sherlock were no longer strictly platonic. Maybe hadn't ever been. 

For John, relationships of love were bound up with physical intimacy. He was, he was told, a really good lover, and part of that was that he enjoyed both pleasing his partner without always expecting instant reciprocity, and also that he was considered fairly adventurous in bed. Not every partner wanted to explore every aspect of Johns repertoire, but he was very good at finding what they liked. A bit like Irene Adler (but without the aggressive public nudity and non consensual drugging).....(he really must make sure Sherlock understood that second one was still not OK as well, Baskerville had not been forgotten). 

Now....now....he knew Sherlock did indulge in sexual relations, albeit not under normal circumstances. He knew that Sherlock was, according to those who knew him best, in love with him, and that his recent activities were likely reflective of someone confronting a perfect storm of loss (John to Mary and Rebecca), pressure (only being freed from a life prison sentence or fatal overseas mission if he could remove Moran and co from the picture) and the resurfacing of long hidden childhood trauma. John knew that he had no idea how things would turn out. But he was going to take a gamble as big as Mycroft's had been, sharing Sherlock's darkest secrets. 

...............

He turned to Sherlock, ignoring Mycroft and Lestrade.

'No drugs, no...other stuff. No hiding places, no lies, not any more, Sherlock. You and me, 221B. Two day old takeaways, fingers in the fridge, me buying the milk, Mrs Hudson's frightening level of innuendo and 'spare' scones. You and me trying to avoid being killed while getting the not very nice people. Sound OK?'

Sherlock looked up from the sofa where he now sat slouched and, John noted, was possibly even grubbier and smellier than he'd thought. Also possibly he looked a little ashamed, embarrassed. 

'OK. Yes.'  
He didn't smile but did press his lips together into a shape which John interpreted as thanks.  
Then he said it  
'Thank you'

'Thats fine. But Sherlock, I do need you to do something for me when we get home (John loved that word, 'home').'

'John?'

'Have a bath. In fact, have two. You smell like one of your experiments. That's not a good thing. And if you want to experience porn, Sherlock, please hack in and watch it on my laptop like you used to, for some wholesome smut, rather than thinking you have to actually act it out in person with a cast of thousands on Mycrofts reality TV channel?'

Sherlock had the grace to look away at this last part. It was a gamble on John's part, but he really didn't want Sherlock covering up any part of his issues which didn't have to be. There was enough that genuinely needed to be concealed, for good reasons. So the rest needed to be acknowledged. 

A small nod was given.

'Good. That's good, isn't it. All settled.' Mycroft looked smug. 

Lestrade who had also said little during the whole discussion, just looked relieved that no one had hit anyone and that he hadn't had to sit through the gory details of what Sherlock had been up to. So things were pretty much back to the kind of normal - which was normal only to these bizarre individuals, he concluded. He drained the last of his beer.


	9. Back to Baker Street

They didn't go back to Baker Street that night, since neither of the men could face the huge psychological step without sleep and (in Johns case) a bloody good breakfast. 

He slept well for the first time in weeks in one of Mycrofts sumptuous guest rooms, showered and shaved in an amazing bathroom, and on walking into the breakfast room, was surprised to see a very clean looking, almost sleek, Sherlock padding around. Very thin and pale. But clean. 

He appeared to be planning to eat something too, as there was an actual piece of buttered toast on his plate. (This promise later proved to be a little hopeful, since when breakfast was finished John found the toast half buried in a large indoor plant pot behind Sherlock's chair. But there were a couple of Sherlock shaped bites out of it. Better than nothing. And less smelly Sherlock made him want to sing. 

.............

'Good morning, John.'  
Sherlock sounded tired, his voice even deeper than normal but he sounded calmer.

'Morning. Did you sleep?' 

'An hour? Maybe a bit less. I don't like sleeping except at 221B, John.' 

'Mmmm, no, you don't really sleep much there either.'

'But I could - there - if I wanted to. And there's my violin. I can play it. Here all I can think about is that I'm not there. Or think of some new ways to kill Mycroft.'

John laughed. Then realised he wasn't sure when he'd last done that. Laughed. He shook his head wryly. 

'Well be back there shortly. You can sleep, you should sleep. I will stand guard outside, to make sure the baddies don't come. And there is milk to take with us. Bread for toast too. And as long as there aren't drugs in the jam pots at home, there will be jam as well.'

..............

It wasn't discussing what needed to be tackled, but it was a start. And it was setting foundations back in place. Comfortable structures to provide a slender raft, on which the hard verbal stuff, the painful stuff, could happen, without everything else sinking at the first sign of a storm. 

At ten a.m., a black car pulled up outside the house and Sherlock and John climbed inside. John noticed a second car behind and opened the car window to ask Mycroft about it. Mycroft waved his hand dismissively. No one had a more dismissive, dismissive wave than Mycroft Holmes.

'Purely routine, John, we can't be too careful at the moment. They are my people and they will be stationed outside 221B. I trust you are also equipped?'

John looked confused, then realised Mycroft was referring to his Sig, currently safely tucked into the small of his back. Not pointing at the side of his own head. A good call, he concluded. Things always seemed better come the dawn and a full English. 

'As always, Mycroft.' 

'Good. I shall be over tomorrow once you are settled in so that we can discuss strategy for dealing with Moran and co. 

In the meantime, please do not switch on lights after dusk until the curtains are tightly closed. I am trying to arrange for the window glass to be exchanged for bullet proof glass but the house is Grade 2* listed and apparently the glass is original hand blown and rare and the authorities are being sticky. I shall progress it. I will let you know if that will involve a mystery case of the windows all being broken by a sonic boom in the vicinity of Baker Street. We have a whole sound department who love creating noises such as sonic booms.' 

He smiled happily.

John had no doubt that he would. 

He glanced across at Sherlock, who was frowning, and appeared deep in thought and not in the mood for talking. Fine. He closed his eyes and sank back in his seat. The car purred away. 

.......

As the car pulled up to the kerbside by 221B, Sherlock leapt out and darted in. John followed more slowly, as he had a holdall to carry, added to which his limp had made an unwelcome return. Sherlock didn't appear to have noticed this fact, and appeared to be sporting only the clothes he stood up in. At least John thought, he didn't have to pay a taxi, as so often was the case. 

There was no sign of Mrs Hudson, but it was a Tuesday and John knew that she and Mrs Turner next door usually went off for an outing on Tuesdays. Both pretended they did so for the other's benefit. Mrs Turner said it was good for Mrs Hudson's hip for her to keep mobile, and a nice walk around a garden centre was ideal for this; whereas Mrs Hudson said that Mrs Turner was obsessed with ugly shiny house plants and she couldn't abide the nasty mildew-y spider infested things. They always seemed to have a good time despite this approach. 

John clipped up the seventeen steps and into the flat. Sherlock had headed straight into his room, it seemed. John just stood on the threshold of the flat and breathed in deeply. He felt light-headed. Not a panic attack, quite, but he was wholly overwhelmed by the sensations flowing over him at being here, being back. The smell of the place. Of science experiments, of beeswax polish, of aftershave and cologne and dark wood and books - and of Sherlock.

He dumped the holdall on the floor, went into the living room and sat in the armchair. His chair, with its muted mossy greens and tartan. Comfortable and solid and enveloping with security and good memories. 

John sat there, and the tension of the last few weeks started to unravel and unwind. Quite unexpectedly, he found tears leaking from his eyes, and had to brush them away roughly with his sleeve. Good thing Sherlock was not in the room. He closed his eyes, the weeks of tension and trauma washing over him, and starting to seep and escape through his pores into the room. 

.................

'John. John.'

He didn't think he'd fallen asleep. Maybe a little bit then. 

He opened one slightly sleep sticky eye. Sherlock was there. Crouched down by his knees, his silver green eyes blinking close to Johns face. 

John started, and struggled to sit up in his chair, slightly panicked.

'S..lock, what's up. Are you alright?' 

'Tea, John. You promised tea. With milk. But you need to buy jam. For the toast. For breakfast.'

John didn't dare ask about why the existing jams were not an option. The flat hadn't been in as bad a state as he had feared, but the place was messy and every item of crockery and cups it contained, appeared to be covered in a layer of fur where it had been discarded. 

'You want tea now?'

'Please, John.' 

..........

The rest of that day was spent putting the flat to rights. Or rather, John putting the flat to rights, and Sherlock lying like the lady in the lake on the sofa, in his silk dressing gown and pyjamas, one pale hand trailing off the edge and the other placed across his chest. He hardly moved, and he didn't speak. 

John had considered opening discussions, but beyond pointing at the full cup and barking 'Tea. Drink before it's cold', he really wasn't sure where to start. He had however noted by lunchtime that Sherlock's drug abuse seemed to be catching up with him, as he was starting to exhibit some signs of withdrawal. He also looked very gaunt with the light from the window catching his face. Like a skeleton. John was pleased that Sherlock had drunk the tea he'd made, as he'd added supplement powder to it to try to offset the lack of food and nutrients. 

................

It was late in the evening, perhaps nine or ten, before Sherlock really stirred. By that time, the flat was in a much better state, and John's washing up marathon had restored the concept of clean cups and plates to the universe. 

Sherlock sat up, and regarded John, who was sitting in his chair, thumbing through a car magazine. He didn't have a car. Nor did Sherlock. It must have been acquired for a case.

'John, I want to explain.'

John slowly lowered the magazine.  
'Now? You want to talk about this now? Not wait for a bit?' 

'No. Tomorrow Mycroft will come, and everything will be about the mission again and there won't be the time or opportunity. Also. Also,....I am conscious that you may not have a good opinion of me from my recent behaviour, and I wanted to try to explain so that even if you still didn't, at least it would be based on a good understanding of the events.' 

John nodded. He didn't want to think about what he'd seen, let alone talk about it, but it was clear Sherlock needed to. 

..................

'Mycroft has told me what he showed you. And I know it horrified you.'

'Not horrified, exactly. Upset, more than a bit.' 

'He said you vomited.'

John said nothing. Nodded. Looked straight ahead. 

Sherlock continued, looking towards the light streaming in from the window. Traffic noise continued outside, people passing by, unconscious of the grave discussion taking place a few yards above their heads. 

.................

'The men I met, who you saw on the video, they were old dealers of mine from Oxford. I was buying drugs from them and I was - paying - them for the drugs they supplied.'

'I don't understand. Why could you not just pay them money like everyone else? Or use another dealer?'

'Because at this short notice they were the only people I knew could supply the purity of cocaine I required, short of processing it myself. Which I couldn't do undetected with Mycrofts surveillance.'

'OK, but why the payment in kind? You have money. Pay them for the drugs.' 

'Because....because that was the system we had. In Oxford. I didn't have money then. Mycroft cut off my allowance, reducing it when I started getting pulled in by the police too many times, and cutting it off completely once I started the drug use. I - had to pay for the drugs - in other ways.'

John swallowed hard.  
'Jesus. So. Let me get this straight. You used to turn tricks for these scum, to get drugs at college; and now almost twenty years later, you're doing it again? Why would they not take money this time?'

'They wouldn't take money, I offered them it, offered them more than the price. They said they wanted a reminder of old times....I think they could see I was desperate, like I was then.'

John looked sick. 

................

Sherlock deployed bluster mode.  
'Really, John, it isn't that big a deal. After all, you said you knew about Jonathon Lang, so it really isn't a case of them deflowering a blushing virgin by anyone's definition. And I went along with it, so it's not like they forced me. Just transport, remember.' Sherlock smiled a twisted, insincere smile and John thought he sounded like he had rehearsed this bit. Like a rhyme you learn at school, to recite in class. It never sounds convincing. And that smile. He never, ever in his life wanted to see Sherlock do that again. 

John felt sick. So Sherlock didn't think (or convinced himself anyway) that it mattered what he did, what he let people do to him, because he wasn't a virgin when they did it, even though it was being raped as a child that was the only reason that meant that was the case. Holy fuck. This was warped. His friend, his..his whatever....was seriously screwed up. 

He looked at Sherlock.  
'The thing with the oral sex, that seemed to be the thing that bothered you most. Is that because of Jonathon Lang? And is that why you dislike eating too?' John recalled that the only times Sherlock did eat anything of substance, it was generally from John's plate, and usually only once the food had been cut up into small bite-size pieces. Small enough not to choke on when you didn't want to swallow it, he realised. Why had he been so blind. 

Sherlock looked small, defeated. He nodded.  
'Sort of. I don't like things in my mouth at all, and the food thing is partly that, but it's not just that. It's also about control and alertness. I feel less sluggish if I don't eat and my brain can fully function, and I am the master of what I allow my body to have, I am in control. 

But yes, some of it is probably about him. I don't know why I have less issue with other types of sex, which I don't normally do either, just because it's a distraction, after all occasional masturbation can suffice to meet the need. 

Its...it's the choking thing with the oral sex, it makes me panic and I feel like I will black out. It frightens me, still. I'm really just a freak like Donovan says, like Lang said, I think.' 

..................

John couldn't believe Sherlock had opened up to this extent, had trusted him with this information, exposed his pain and humiliation. It made him want to weep.

He swung round and walked over to where Sherlock stood. He took him by the shoulders and twisted him round to face him. The taller man looked down lower than Johns gaze. 

'Shut up, Sherlock. Just, shut up. Now listen to me. So far as I can tell from everything I've learned, you've had two kinds of relationships so far in your life.  
First: being raped by someone you trusted and who was supposed to be your teacher, at the age of eleven. Eleven fucking years old.  
Second: having sex with men you don't love or care about, in exchange for fucking drugs. Not consensual, Sherlock. Not consensual. If you're doing it to get a substance you're addicted to, that's not consensual. 

Sherlock, have you ever, ever, in your life had a relationship with anyone, male or female, that involved intimacy with someone you cared about? I mean, ever? Or is that it? Shitty crappy encounters with people exploiting you? 

Sherlock looked at him strangely sadly.  
'I have always regarded the combination of sentiment and the act of sex to be best separated. So no, John, I have not done as you advocate. To do so would be complicated and lead to a predisposition to weakness in dealings with the individual concern. That would be unwise...' He paused 

John interjected  
'Especially for you?'

'Especially for me.' 

.................

Sherlock bit his lip and looked away, releasing himself from John's grasp and walking gracefully over to the window to gaze out at the unceasing night activity of a West End evening. He was thirty-seven years old and he felt like a small boy. He wasn't sure he wanted to expose that child again? He had been packaged away for so long. He was Sherlock. William was somebody different. Somebody dead. 

John could see the conflict playing over Sherlock's face but had one final question.  
'Short of sexual activity, have you ever, you know, just held someone? In their arms, maybe lying down but not doing anything? Gaining comfort? With someone you care about and trust.'

'No.' 

'Fine. Okay. 

Just so you know. (here John took a massive breath and felt like the man on the moon taking the giant step)

If you did ever want, you know, that, just a hug, then, well, I'm here.' 

Sherlock half turned, and looked at John through the corner of his eye. He looked quizzical, as though he was trying to determine the nature of the statement and the motives behind it. He didn't look entirely sure of the answers. More data needed?

'Uh...well....thankyou.....John. That's very kind. I shall bear it in mind.'

With that, Sherlock announced that he was now going to his Mind Palace, and arranged himself on the sofa in the fin-de-siècle dying swan manner John had become very accustomed to. 

..................

John decided to beat a hasty retreat after so much baring of souls (Sherlock) and opening skylights an inch (himself). Although perhaps Sherlock hadn't really bared his soul. Only his arse, thought John gloomily. And that not to John. He hadn't opened up at all about the feelings for John, which Mycroft and Greg were adamant he possessed. And they hadn't discussed Mary and Rebecca and how that impacted on John. 

Still, it had been a gruelling conversation for both of them; there was a mission to concentrate on, and perhaps now was not the time? The question was, would there ever be a right time for them? Did the damage run just too deep to be overcome? 

John didn't have the answers to that question, just a burning anger at the cruelty of people who lied and took advantage of others. To fragile adults, and long ago, a lonely little boy. He and Sherlock were suffering the results, and he wasn't sure how long the pain would stretch. 

Time to sleep. To heal. To face tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note, this is the end of Part 1 of Beyond Ourselves. 
> 
> There is now a Part 2 which follows on immediately from this fic  
> 'The Fragile Life of Sherlock S Holmes'
> 
> Kudos and feedback very welcome, ESP the feedback!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Life and Death of William SS Holmes [PODFIC]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6525733) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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